


Learning To Heal

by brokenlittleboy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fix-It, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Mentions of hell, Self-Harm, s8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 09:54:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2305538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam had a careful system in place to cover up episodes and panic attacks that occurred whenever his memories of Hell became to much. Now that they have a home-base of sorts in the bunker, his system has been broken up. One night goes particularly badly, and he can't hide anything from Dean anymore. Because Sam and Dean have never fully discussed the myriad of traumatic issues Sam has, I wrote this as a sort of starting point for them, so Sam could learn to heal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning To Heal

When they were living motel to motel, leviathan to leviathan, barely swimming above a trillion shitty tides of grief, it was easy for Sam to hide his episodes. He could hold in the worst of them until Dean had left for a bar or a beer run. Looking collected for the rest of the night was a little bit of a challenge, but when Dean passed out drunkenly, there was nothing Sam could do or gasp that would wake him up.

Now that they weren’t transient, now that they had the bunker and just maybe a home of sorts, Sam’s perfect system had been broken up.

In short, he was fucked.

They had separate rooms, but they spent most of their time together. When Sam wasn’t having a Bad Night, he often fell asleep with Dean in his bed anyway, passed out after watching a movie together in his room. Not only that, but Dean was constantly motherhenning him because of the trials, keeping one eye trained on him at all times.

This made it easy for Dean to notice the symptoms that started to show up, the ones he hadn’t noticed before, the ones Sam used to manage to keep hidden.

They had been joking about some monster in a terrible 90s horror movie, pointing out the inaccuracies and giggling. Sam had stayed in bed all day, for multiple debilitating reasons, and Dean hadn’t brought it up. He’d only held up the movie and a big thing of popcorn and grinned before sliding into bed next to Sam, chatting about absolutely nothing and scooting over until their thighs touched.

They had been mid-movie when Dean suddenly leaned over, his nose brushing against Sam’s hair, and asked lowly, “So, or you gonna tell me what’s up or not?”

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but Dean added, “excluding the trials,” before he could defend himself.

Sam huffed, crossing his arms over his chest, which would’ve looked more menacing if he wasn’t also balancing the remains of the popcorn container. “Dean,” he said, adopting his big brother-unique condescending tone, “I’m fine, I swear. I’m just getting used to place, is all.”

Dean looked over at him, eyes narrowed, and nodded, unconvinced. “Okay, Suspect McSuspicious,” he said mildly before turning his eyes back to the screen.

Sam relaxed back into the pillows, holding the popcorn bin tighter to hide how badly his fingers were shaking, and mentally prepared himself for a tough couple of weeks. Another side of his mind silently wished that Dean would notice and get him to confess and maybe hold him while he cried, but he pushed the thought away easily, embarrassed and ashamed. He hoped Dean didn’t notice the way his cheeks darkened or how he kept shifting restlessly, but that was probably a lost cause.

Dean left after the movie, around one in the morning. He was reluctant to go, but Sam pressured him about getting enough sleep and finally he flapped off with a warning to check on Sam bright and early. Sam shut his door and melted immediately, flopping back onto the bed. The itching had begun but he’d been able to ignore it. The shaking was more persistent now, which was annoying, but he could handle that too. It was the feelings, intrusive thoughts, and really  _really_  bad habits that were going to put up a fight.

Mumbling under his breath to keep from crying out, Sam stood back up and paced throughout the room, fingers tying and untying themselves in little knots as he went. He took all his knives and guns and carefully set them into a drawer and locked it. He folded all his clothes that Dean had delivered earlier and put them away. He made the bed. He paced some more.

His throat caught and his resolution weakened. The shaking had crawled up his arms and to his torso, and he had a feeling soon he wouldn’t have popcorn in his stomach anymore. Sweating like a goddamn marathon runner, he kicked the bed in frustration. He bit his lip until it bled, but the blood only made things worse. He ran a hand through his hair and swallowed thickly.

 _Fuck it,_  he thought crazily,  _I didn’t ask for this. I don’t have to be strong._  He stumbled to the door and yanked it open. He heard it slam against the wall as he jogged down the hallway and into the bathroom door, unintentionally slamming that one closed behind him like a put-out teenager. He knew he was making a lot of noise and probably woke Dean up, but there were a few other matters at hand that he really had to focus on.

This night wasn’t just a Bad Night. He’d kept it all in until the pressure blew the gasket. This was going to be the worst one in months, the worst one since Lucifer had been mostly evacuated by Castiel.

He couldn’t help the desperate laughter that bubbled out of his throat. He rubbed at the tears budding at the corners of his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Sammy?” Dean called, causing Sam to startle and back away from the door. Dean’s concern was clear, even through the door. He knocked twice. “Sammy kiddo, you in there? You alright?”

When Sam didn’t respond, all of Dean’s worst fears and worst-case scenarios beamed to the front of his head like a convenient theatre of paranoia, images of Sam seizing or bleeding out or limp and cold flashing by. Physically shaking his head to shake them away, he tried knocking again, then tried the doorhandle. Locked. Scrubbing a hand down his face, he leaned forward and bumped his head against the wood, listening for sounds of life on the other side. “Sammy?” he asked softly, “Can you let me in?” he shook the handle again fruitlessly, wordlessly begging Sam to give him something to work with.

He stilled when he heard Sam sniffle and bump against something porcelain inside the bathroom. “It’s alright,” Sam told him weakly, his voice echoing off the tiles.

“Did you lose your lunch?” Dean asked sympathetically, shaking his head. “You want some Ibuprofen or something? Does your head hurt?”

“I said it’s alright,” Sam rebuffed, but his voice sounded shaky and on the verge of tears. He was clearly miserable. “Just go back to sleep.”

“Tough luck,” Dean muttered to himself, pulling out a paper clip and picking the simple lock within seconds. The door moved away from the wall with a satisfying click, swinging inward. Dean stepped inside the bathroom, taking in the white walls and floors and old brass mirrors and sinks, but no Sam. Not inside the shower, or leaning over the toilet… Dean stopped short when he finally caught sight of his little brother.

_Oh my god._

Sam was in the tub.

Not for a quick soak or anything harmless, but curled up on his side inside it, still fully clothed, his knees pressed close to his face. Sam was gargantuan, broad as well as ridiculously tall, but he was adept at making himself smaller, at folding himself inward until he seemed less bulky.

Inside the bathtub, he looked like a little kid again, small and defenseless and shaking violently. He looked up at Dean from under his hair, cheeks burning red and eyes glistening.

“Don’t come any closer,” Sam croaked, his voice only a few decibels higher than that of a pin dropping.

Dean snorted. “Like hell I’m gonna-”

He stopped short when he finally noticed the blood, and just how much of it there was. He stumbled forward, suddenly frantic, dropping to his knees beside the tub. “Sam, what the fuck?” he gasped, raising his hands to help somehow, uncertain, “What the fuck is this?”

“I’m sorry, please don’t be mad,” Sam begged, his voice still that tiny, nervous tone and tight with unshed tears. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not mad,” Dean assured him instantly, “Just show me what happened so I can help.”

Sam sniffled again, a single tear dripping its way down his face. He shifted until he was upright in the tub, still huddled close to himself, his knees drawn up to his chest. He offered his arms to Dean, which were painted red as if he had been used as a sadistic painter’s canvas. There were dozens of tiny, shallow cuts ranging from his wrist to the crook of his elbow. His nails were almost black with the amount of blood coagulated underneath them.

“What did you do?” Dean asked, carefully putting his hands around Sam’s wrists, handling him as if he were made of glass.

“I had to get it off of me,” Sam explained morosely, letting Dean grab a towel and wet it and press it gently against his skin, “I always have to.”

“Get what off?” Dean asked, busying himself with getting the first-aid kit out of the cabinet and onto the floor beside the tub. None of the cuts seemed to need stitches, so he tasked himself on carefully covering each one with bandages before rolling Sam’s sleeves back down to cover his arms.

“Don’t touch that,” Dean ordered sternly, pointing Sam’s his arms and maintaining eye contact to make sure Sam understood. “Now you’re gonna tell me what the hell’s been going on.”

Sam looked away, dipping his head to rest his chin on one of his knees. Dean hated Sam looking so small, hated whatever was sending Sam running to curl up in the tub and claw at his own skin. He waited waiting, sitting by helplessly and not being able to comfort Sam, but he had to listen.

“You wouldn’t get it,” Sam mumbled, eyes focused on the ground. “Just let me deal with this.”

“I don’t think bleeding out really counts dealing, Sam,” Dean told him lightly, his voice shaking. “And you won’t know if I get it or not until you try to explain, right? So talk. I’m not going anywhere.”

Sam looked up at him for a split second, grateful, before casting his eyes down again. He picked at the hem on the side of his jeans before speaking.

“You don’t just… shake off thousands of years with the devil because an angel touched you,” Sam began slowly. “You and Bobby… you always said stuff like I’d lost my marbles or the other shoe was gonna fall. I hated being talked about like that, but I’m not mad. I get it. I was pretty much just a burden, and for awhile there, I couldn’t function at all.”

Dean opened his mouth to protest but Sam shut him up with a simple look before continuing on.

“And yeah, Castiel helped. He got rid of the hallucinations. But the memories are still there. All the time. And they’re not gonna go away. I don’t really want them to, you know? I mean, they’re horrible but at this point we might as well agree that they’re part of who I am. Without that sacrifice, I’m still just that kid who let the devil out and ruined just about abso-fucking-lutely everything.”

Sam coughed and pulled his knees closer.

“…Anyway, I’m better, I promise. I don’t see Lucifer everywhere. The nightmares are manageable. And I’m still me, okay? I mean, I’m not crazy. Please. I’m not some kid who lost their marbles or anything. I’m still Sam. So I want you to treat me like that, not like some headcase who curls up in bathtubs.”

“And I’ll certainly address that,” Dean butted in, “But you wanna tell me why you’re curling up in tubs and scratching your arms off in the first place?”

Sam made a noise of frustration and hid his face behind his knees. “You’re not gonna get it,” he whimpered, words muffled by denim.

“Sammy,” Dean chided softly, scooting closer to lean against the cool porcelain. “Talk to me. Please.”

Sam sighed and shifted again. He brought his head up, but only slightly, his nose pressed against his knees.

“Lucifer… he… the moment he possessed me, he was cramming his grace down every single corner of my mind, learning every secret and thought and wish and fear and whatever else is up there. In less than a second, he had me down. He knew everything. And when we fell, he was back in control. It was like his grace, his soul or whatever, was stretching over mine. Keeping it inside him. I couldn’t see anything that wasn’t him, didn’t know anything that wasn’t him. He used my face. He thought it was his to begin with, the whole vessel thing.

“And… and… he wasn’t nice to me, but I think he was trying to love me somehow? More like he was in love with the idea of me, of having a perfectly cultivated vessel. Just my body. So, uh… he did a lot of… I mean…”

Sam laughed bitterly and swallowed. “You know what I mean. And if I made him angry, he was creative. And bloody. But the worst part wasn’t the torture or the … I mean, he stole my face. My body. He used it to do awful  _awful_  things, even before we fell. And he made me feel like I was him. Like we were one and the same, or at least that we were similar. And to be honest, it feels like he didn’t take my face. It feels like I took his. I can barely remember how it was before. I don’t fucking know how you can stand to look at me, Dean. I take this skin off because it feels like oil and shame and Lucifer inside me and I can’t fucking look in the mirror because Lucifer’s looking back and he took everything from me, Dean.” The last line was a sob, his voice increasing in tempo and desperation as he got lost in the memories.

“He took everything,” he repeated quietly, voice breaking. “And I don’t know how to get it back.”

Resolve gone, like a dam finally breaking to let the torrent loose, he looked up at Dean and broke down into jagged, hoarse sobs. Dean didn’t waste any time. He crawled into the tub next to Sam, pressing up against him and wrapping his arms around his little brother. He combed a hand through Sam’s hair, slowly rocking him and whispering little comforting things into his ear until he finally calmed down, shakes receding into dull tremors. Still Dean didn’t cut him loose, moving around clumsily until he was sitting against one side of the tub, his legs stretching down the length of it. Sam was sitting between his legs, his back leaning against Dean’s chest. Dean’s arms kept him there, snug and safe, pulling him back flush against Dean.

“You’re  _so_  strong. You’re not crazy or broken or anything. I got a lot of things to say to you,” Dean said roughly, his voice wobbling dangerously. His breath ghosted over Sam’s ear and Sam tried to still his body, tried to listen.

“I know saying it isn’t gonna make you believe it, but he didn’t take one single fucking thing from you. You are still the same selfless boy that I knew before you fell. He tricked you, Sam. That’s what he does. That’s who he is. All he did was trick you and play with you and torture you. Your face is yours. Your body is yours. It doesn’t belong to anyone else, and certainly not that jackass. It always has been yours. There’s nothing wrong with it or unclean with it and he’s gone, Sammy. I need you to hear that. And he ain’t coming back. Ever. And if he does, he’ll have to go through me first.”

Dean paused to protectively pull Sam even closer, securing his arms around him and feeling Sam’s warmth against his chest.

“You’re not disgusting, you’re beautiful. You’re smart and you’re brave for even  _breathing_  after what you’ve been through. And hell isn’t a part of you, Sam. You don’t need it. I don’t want you to. I forgave you a billion times over before you even made that godforsaken jump. And I’m fucking sorry we never talked about this before, because we needed to, you hear me? I forgave you. The world did, too. And now you’re out, and you’re you, you always have been, and you don’t need fixing, just a little bit of time. And a home. Which, by the way, I think we’ve got one now.

"He’s not you, Sam. You’re not him. You never were. He may have tricked you once, but the game’s over. I’m here again. And I told you, I’m not going to leave. Ever. I promise. So why don’t we get out of this tub and back into bed, huh? You must be exhausted. You need sleep. We can talk about it more in the morning, if you like. I just want you to know you’re safe. Do you think you’re safe?”

Sam turned sideways to look Dean in the face and smiled softly. “I do,” he told Dean, a whole new torrent of emotions mixing around inside of him now. Mostly love. “And I am a little tired.”

“I knew it!” Dean teased him, poking him in the side. “We’re going to  _my_  bed this time, though.”

Sam’s room was still sparse and dispassionate. He could tell Sam thought of the place more as a business and wasn’t quite comfortable. Dean’s room was all his, though, and because of that, Sam spent a lot of time in it. He’d feel safer if he slept in there, with Dean and Dean’s things. 

Dean scooted out from behind him and stood up, turning to help Sam up. They walked out of the bathroom and into the hall side-by-side, not saying a word. When Dean helped Sam into bed and gave him a glass of water and some painkillers, Sam swallowed them down without complaint. Dean huffed about, getting another blanket and fluffing Sam’s pillow. Finally, he stood over Sam’s bedside and planted a small kiss on his forehead. Sam’s eyes watered, but he didn’t comment, only turned and snuggled against Dean when Dean climbed in beside him.

“Thank you,” he whispered, grabbing some of Dean’s shirt in his fist.

Dean’s arm went to his back and stayed there, solid and comforting. “Anything for you, kiddo,” he whispered back, snuggling until they were nose to nose. Sam’s eyes easily fluttered shut when Dean started rubbing his back, but Dean was still wide awake after what had just happened. He watched Sam’s face relax and look ten years younger as he slept. In his sleep, none of the hell showed, none of the other bullshit that they’d been forced to face. Dean watched a moment longer before shutting his own eyes, making a silent promise to Sam to still be there when he woke up.

Things would be alright. They would be alright. They had to be. Dean would gladly end the world a billion times over for Sam to be okay, for Sam to be happy. He more than deserved it. With the cage and the trials, it felt like Sam was constantly trying to make up for something, casting his life aside because it didn’t mean anything. Dean wanted to tell Sam he was so fucking wrong. Dean couldn’t snap his fingers and turn Sam’s life around, but he could be here when shit hit the fan, and he could certainly hold him after a really bad night.

“Love you, Sammy,” he whispered, voice raw with emotion, listening to Sam’s even breathing. His thoughts drifted as he finally let his exhaustion take the best of him.

He thought he might’ve heard a “Love you too, Dean,” right before he drifted off to sleep for the night.


End file.
